Homeward Bound
by JadeMac2442
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock is almost home. John is still waiting for his miracle.


___**Homeward Bound**_

**Spoilers**: Mild for Reichenbach Fall  
**Summary**: _Post-Reichenbach_. Sherlock is almost home. John is still waiting for his miracle.  
Vaguely inspired by the song Homeward Bound" musics and lyrics by Marta Keen.  
**Rating**: G  
**Wordcount**: 845  
**Genre**: Gen, friendship, possibly pre-slash, if you've got your goggles on.  
**Disclaimer**: Sherlock Holmes began as the brainchild of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; he now belongs to all of us, as he is public domain. _Sherlock_ is the property of Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat and the BBC.

* * *

_"If you find it's me you're missing, if you're hoping I'll return,  
To your thought I'll soon be list'ning; in the road I'll stop and turn.  
Then the wind will set me racing as my journey nears its end,  
And the path I'll be retracing when I'm homeward bound again."  
-Marta Keeen_

It was a quiet, misty morning, when Sherlock stepped out onto the pavement. He pulled the door shut behind him, making sure that he had not, however inadvertently, trailed any blood outside with him. He could not afford any mistakes. But no. He had left no fibers.

The traffic was light. That was good. Sherlock hated Prague. The sooner he left, the better.

This had been the last one. The very last. He was finished. It had taken more than a year. A year. But it was over now.

Sherlock realised that he was both hungry and exhausted, as the needs of his body rushed at him, clamoring for attention over the demands of his mind. He swayed and caught himself and swayed again. Food. He needed food. And a bed.

_Sherlock_.

He whirled in the direction of the voice. He had heard it as though it had been spoken aloud.

Out of the corner of his mind, Sherlock saw a blond man, a ratty jumper. A warm, exasperated smile.

_John_.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the street. John. He could see John. It occurred to him for the first time. He _was finished_. He could go home now.

He could go home.

The thought stopped him. Froze him for a moment. It had been so long. So long.

He'd been working toward this day for so long. It was what he thought he'd always wanted. A never ending case. Complete unfettered stimulation. Never bored.

Everything he'd always wanted. Constant stimulation. For a year.

But that was not what he wanted now. He wanted...something else. Someone else.

Sherlock had actually been surprised at how much he'd missed John. Despite the knowledge that John was safe in England, Sherlock had often found himself talking to his friend. He'd turn to tell John what something he'd deduced, and then...remember.

It was not that he'd deleted the knowledge. He couldn't delete John. Sherlock had _tried_.

_He couldn't._

He had thought that John would be a distraction. No. John _was_ a distraction. But John...John was more.

John was vital. John was..._everything_.

John had been the reason for ALL of this. Not adventure. Not stimulation.

John.

A car horn jolted him out of his reverie and called attention to the fact that he'd been wandering his mind palace whilst his body was positioned in a rather inappropriate place.

Sherlock moved back to the sidewalk as the cabbie screamed at him in Czech.

London. John. Home.

The wind caught the back of him and seemed to push him.

Sherlock turned.

He smiled.

And he ran.

It had been a year. Sherlock had been dead for _more_ than a year. John didn't know how it had been a year. He didn't remember most of it. That was probably a good thing. There was nothing about this year he wanted to remember.

He'd gotten a job. A mediocre, grey job. At a grey, mediocre surgery. He helped people. Sometimes. But it never gave him joy. Very little did, these days.

He lost himself staring at the walls sometimes.

John just wanted...Sherlock. John had begged him for a miracle. He hadn't gotten it yet.

He was used to waiting for Sherlock. That was it was between them. John would wait for Sherlock till he died, if need be.

Everyone had told him to move on. It would be more healthy. John knew that. In fact, he even agreed with most of it. It would be healthy. He should move on.

It was just that...he couldn't.

He had tried.

But how did you go back to "normal" after Sherlock? How could anyone go after _that_? It wasn't like _anyone_ could compare.

Sherlock was...Sherlock.

He wondered how long he'd been staring at the window this time, as he was interrupted by a frantic knocking on his door.

John sighed, levering himself up out of the chair as he cursed the limp that had returned to his leg with Sherlock's fall. "Coming," he shouted. He really didn't want to get the door. It was just going to be someone else telling him about how to live. How to get over Sherlock.

_Like it was possible. Like it was easy_.

John wrenched the door open, roughly. "Look, I don-" he started to say.

His knees went weak. He was glad he hadn't let go of the door knob, and he used it to steady himself. _Sherlock_.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

_His_ Sherlock. _Was standing. Right. In. Front. Of. Him. Sherlock. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Standing. Not dead_.

John didn't know what to say. Or what to do. He just blinked.

Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do either. He fidgeted, and stared at the ground. _Sherlock_ fidgeted. Sherlock _fidgeted_. Nervously. The idea was almost more incongruous than Sherlock returning from the dead.

John cleared his throat. Blinked. Cleared his throat again. "Sher-Sherlock."

"Hello, John." Sherlock smiled, nervously, as though he was uncertain of his welcome. "Can I come in?"

He nodded vaguely, as he stepped back from the door, and allowed Sherlock to pass.

The fog was just beginning to clear from John's mind.

His miracle. He'd gotten it.

* * *

Okay, so...I'm back, I think. I think you know I haven't really written in nearly two years. But my muse is working again. So hopefully the Star Trek updates will be soon. I know that a lot of you are waiting for them. My apologies.

Please, no negative feedback.


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